


ten thousand words

by bree_black



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2011, Death References, Episode: s05e04 The End, Implied Relationships, Light Bondage, M/M, Memories, Photographs, Polyamory, References to Incest, References to Suicide, Supernatural AU: Croatoan/End'verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-10
Updated: 2012-07-10
Packaged: 2017-11-09 13:11:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/455819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bree_black/pseuds/bree_black
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 2009, a man who claims to speak to God gives the not-quite-an-angel-anymore Castiel his Polaroid camera. “Use it wisely,” he warns. “Cameras are a strange sort of magic. They hold on to the energy of the moments they capture and keep it alive past its time. That’s why we should only take photographs of our happiest moments. There’s no sense prolonging our pain or sadness, but love and joy are worth saving.”</p><p>During the next five years, Castiel superstitiously takes nine photographs of his happiest moments. When a second Dean arrives from the past, Castiel knows he’s been sent to witness something catastrophic, something so terrible Zachariah believes it will scare Dean into accepting his destiny. He senses the end is near, but Castiel can’t quite bring himself to take the final photograph. Dean does it for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ten thousand words

**Author's Note:**

> So I decided to find out if it was possible to write a happy fic set in the 2014!verse. I think I almost succeeded.
> 
> Warnings for discussion of suicide, brief discussion of incest that never happened, and discussion of Sam's possible death, as in much 2014!fic. Written for the 2011 Dean/Cas Minibang.

Castiel perched on the edge of the lumpy sofa, oblivious to the cloud of dust that rose up around him as he did so. Beside him, Dean looked mildly horrified and pulled his hands into his lap so as to avoid touching anything. The house was filthy, its ancient bric-a-brac contents covered in a fine layer of dust and cobwebs that Castiel thought was actually quite beautiful in the morning light, like a fine dusting of snow. Evidently Dean disagreed.

“This place is fucking creepy, dude,” Dean said, not even bothering to drop his voice to a whisper. “Any second now Miss Havisham is going to turn the corner, in flames.”

Castiel didn’t understand the reference, but he knew by Dean’s tone it probably wasn’t flattering. “This man speaks to God. I think we can forgive him his poor housekeeping skills,” he said, voice low.

“He _claims_ he speaks to God,” Dean corrected, concerned with the specificity of language only when it suited him. “And if getting in touch with the big guy turns you into a crazy hermit, I’m not so sure we should be looking for him. Seriously, I think we may be the first people to set foot in this dump in decades.”

Castiel was about to explain just how short a length of time that actually was when Mister Elliot returned, carrying a tea tray. Between the tray and the black box hanging from his neck by a cord, he looked on the verge of tipping over, his tiny frame bent nearly ninety degrees at the waist. Castiel hastened to take the tray from him, setting it on the glass coffee table in the centre of the over-furnished room, where it sank into a thick layer of dust.

The old man smiled broadly at Castiel, his false teeth loose around his gums. “So nice to see a young man with proper manners these days,” he said, lowering himself slowly into an overstuffed armchair, the only piece of furniture in the room not covered in dust. Castiel poured weak tea into three dusty teacups. Dean set his down without even taking a sip.

Castiel felt his heart sink. He had hoped, when they arrived, that this man would immediately recognize him as more than human, despite his rapidly diminishing powers. Dean looked at Castiel expectantly, so he spoke. “You speak to God,” Castiel said, ignoring the clench of doubt in his stomach. “We believe He may have a message for us.”

The old man nodded sagely, shifting forward in his seat. “He speaks to me of many things,” he said. “Between you and me, sometimes I think he gets lonely. What are your names?”

“My name is Castiel. I am an Angel of the Lord,” _Or at least I was,_ Castiel thought, conscious of the new heaviness in his limbs, of the fact he slept last night and ate some of Dean’s French fries yesterday evening.

“And I’m Dean Winchester,” Dean added. “God has history with me and my brother, Sam.” Castiel saw it then, in the eager tilt of Dean’s shoulders and the light in his eyes as he said Sam’s name. Dean wanted to find God as much as Castiel did, wanted to find a way to bring him and his brother back together again, after three months of absolute separation.

The old man furrowed his brow and closed his eyes, mumbling to himself in a throaty voice. Dean shifted nervously in his seat. Castiel sipped his tea, and then grimaced at the chalky taste. Mister Elliot opened his eyes after just a moment, clucking his tongue decisively. “Nope,” he declared, “Never heard of either of you.”

Deep inside, Castiel felt another piece of his faith shatter. He was under no illusions that this quest wasn’t hurting him; he knew every failed lead, every trail gone cold, dampened his powers further. Castiel wasn’t falling from Grace so much as it was slipping through his fingers, though he tore his hands to shreds trying to hold on.

Dean grabbed him by the shoulder and tugged. Castiel followed the motion automatically, standing, though his limbs felt strangely numb. “Thanks for your time,” Dean said through the rushing in Castiel’s ears. “We’ve gotta get going.” Dean covered his disappointment well, after a lifetime of practice.

“Oh, please stay,” the old man begged, suddenly looking even smaller and more frail in his oversized chair. “You haven’t even finished your tea, and I so seldom have visitors.”

Dean shook his head, holding more firmly to Castiel’s arm as if to steer him out of the tumble-down house. “We have to go,” he said firmly, and Castiel felt profoundly grateful for the authority in his voice, though he hated himself for needing it so badly.

“At least let me take your picture to remember you by,” the man said, and Castiel very nearly pitied him. Before Dean could object, he raised the black box hanging around his neck and aimed it in their direction. It made a loud clicking noise, and then a whirring sound as a thick square of paper was ejected out of the bottom.

“Wait just a second, it’ll be ready in a jiffy,” the man said, pulling the sheet from the camera and waving it in the air between two tightly pinched fingers. 

They waited. Dean kept his fist gripped tightly in the fabric of Castiel’s coat, as if he was afraid he might fall over if he let go. After a minute, the man handed Castiel the square of paper, warning him to grip it only by the edges.

It was mesmerizing, watching the image sharpen into focus before his eyes – Dean, staring straight at the camera with obvious irritation in his expression, while Castiel stood beside him, waiting for Dean to lead him out of this awful house. It struck Castiel with visceral force that photography was not designed for angels. Photography was meant for mortals; it allowed the aging to look back on their youth, the forgetful to remember the experiences of their pasts. Ageless, timeless and usually without physical form, Castiel did not belong in a photograph, and yet there he was, standing next to Dean.

“Never seen instant film before, eh?” the old man said, misidentifying the reason for Castiel’s interest. “I guess you kids do everything on computers these days.”

“Right,” Dean agreed, taking the photograph between two fingers and tugging it out of Castiel’s grip. He felt a strange sense of loss as Dean handed it back to the old man, the desire to hold on to this piece of evidence that he had been here, now, and just like this. 

The old man noticed Castiel’s eyes lingering on the photograph. Castiel saw him hesitate, and then a change came over his face. His eyes unfocused, gone distant and glazed, and his posture softened.

“You okay, dude?” Dean asked, and that seemed to snap him out of it. He shook his head slightly, as if to clear it.

“Yes,” he said, though he didn’t sound at all sure. He reached up to his throat and pulled the camera’s strap from around his neck, holding it out toward Castiel. “Here. You should have this.”

Castiel meant to decline, or to let Dean decline for him, but he was reaching out for the camera before he realized it. “Thank you,” he said.

“Use it wisely. Cameras are a strange sort of magic,” the man said, voice hesitant. “They hold on to the energy of the moments they capture and keep it alive past its time. That’s why we should only take photographs of our happiest moments. There’s no sense prolonging our pain or sadness, but love and joy are worth saving.”

Castiel nodded solemnly, nearly overcome by the urge to bow deeper, but then Dean caught him by the arm again and dragged him out of the house, shuddering. “That whole place was so fucking creepy,” he announced, as they emerged out into the cool, clean air.

“Yes,” Castiel agreed as they started toward the car, but he clutched the camera tightly to his chest.

***

_October, 2009_

Castiel’s first photograph is of the sunset. In his defense, he doesn’t know it’s such a cliché when he takes it. Sitting on a wooden bench on the side of a Nebraska highway, it startles him with its beauty, like he’s never seen one before even though he’s lived a thousand lifetimes.

“Ow,” Dean says from beside him, like lifting his glass bottle of beer to his lips is causing him great pain. “I wish your angel mojo would choose better times to crap out. Like when I’m sleeping.”

Castiel frowns and bites his lip. He feels bad about that. His angel powers have been inconsistent of late, and now they’re both covered in grave dirt from having to run a salt and burn without any shortcuts. Castiel knows his angelic abilities have been the only major help he’s been able to provide to Dean, and every time they short out he feels like he’s letting Dean down.

“I’m sorry,” he says. He stretches his arm and it hurts, the new aching in his muscles a reminder of his failure. “I know that without my powers I’m basically…dead weight.”

Dean cuts his sip of beer short, looking over at Castiel in surprise. “It’s not like that,” he says. “I was just bitching for the sake of it, Cas.”

“Okay,” Castiel agrees, quietly. He takes a sip of his own beer. The silence between them grows rapidly awkward.

“This is weird for me,” Dean says. “Because I always did this with Sam.” He inhales on Sam’s name and it comes out stilted.

“I understand,” Castiel says. He picks at the paper label on his bottle.

“Weird,” Dean continues, “but not bad.” He clears his throat. “I want you to know you can stick around, even if your powers go completely. I’m not gonna throw you out on your ass or anything.” 

Castiel looks over at Dean, but Dean fixes his gaze on the horizon.

“It’s pretty,” Castiel says. Dean nods, so Castiel gets up and rummages through the Impala’s back seat until he finds his camera. When he holds it up to his face his arms still ache, but they feel different now, less like punishment and more like a symptom of an honest day’s work. Castiel finds he rather likes the sensation.

***

_November, 2009_

Castiel takes the second photograph at a bar somewhere in the midwestern United States. They’re here to celebrate a relatively successful day’s work. Successful because together they killed the five demons taking this town on Hell’s equivalent of a joy ride, but only relatively so because they didn’t provide any new information about Lucifer or his plans. Castiel suspects Dean starts drinking out of celebration, and _keeps_ drinking out of frustration, and Castiel matches him drink for drink, mostly for something to do with his hands. Dean doesn’t play pool tonight, or flirt with the girls in low-cut jeans, or even get up to go to the jukebox. He just sits at the bar and drinks steadily, until Castiel starts shifting on his stool uncomfortably.

“What’s up with you?” Dean asks a few minutes after Castiel notices the pressure building low in his belly. “You got somewhere else to be or something?” He snorts, because he knows full well all they have is each other lately, with Bobby far away, Sam even further, and everyone Castiel knew in heaven further still.

“No,” Castiel says, resisting the urge to cover Dean’s hand with his own, to tell him that it’s okay to feel lonely but that he’s not actually alone. Sometimes Castiel thinks he doesn’t count as real company to Dean, though he’s not sure if it’s because he’s not fully human or because he’s not _Sam._ Castiel feels the weight of Sam’s absence constantly – in the jokes he doesn’t understand, the songs he can’t sing along to, and the way he has to be shown how to properly hold a shotgun. Technically, Castiel is Dean’s partner now, but in a million little ways he isn’t. He never will be.

Castiel shifts in his seat again. “ _Dude,_ ” Dean grumbles.

“I believe I need to urinate,” Castiel explains, and Dean laughs so suddenly that beer dribbles out of the corner of his mouth, and he needs to wipe his face with the back of his hand. 

“Well shit,” he says, after he swallows. “So do I. Come on, we can do it together.” Dean is grinning, smile wide and bright because he’s had so much to drink.

Castiel stumbles as he gets down from his stool, and Dean reaches out instinctively to steady him, catching his flailing arm by the wrist. It startles Castiel, the feeling of Dean’s skin on his own. Dean very rarely touches other people directly. He grabs Castiel by the sleeve of his coat, drags Sam to safety by the collar, even guides the women he picks up in bars out the door with a hand on the small of the back, fingers safely above their thin cotton t-shirts. What skin-to-skin contact Castiel has witnessed has been between Dean and Sam, moments of post-battle desperation that seem so sacred Castiel wonders if Dean’s touch does as much to heal Sam as the ointments he applies or the stitches he embeds in his brother’s skin. That and violence, of course, but even though Castiel had laid hands on Dean in anger more than he’d like to admit, Dean had never really fought back. This is the first time Dean has really touched him.

Dean doesn’t drop his wrist until he pushes through the swinging door of the restroom, guiding Castiel across the bar and weaving between the tables. Castiel accidentally makes eye contact with the bartender, and he sees the man quickly drop his gaze, vigorously wiping down the counter. Castiel realizes how they must look, drunk and smiling and Dean leading him into the washroom. It makes Castiel’s face feel hot, but not with shame.

The washroom is small, but surprisingly clean, certainly better than a lot of the other places they’ve stopped in the past few months. A tattered paper sign posted above one of the two urinals warns “Smile, your on camera!,” which might have something to do with the room’s condition.

Dean stands in front of the urinal on the left, so Castiel stands in front of the one on the right. They’re close enough that when he unzips his pants his shoulder brushes against Dean’s, and though they’ve fought side by side for months something about the tiny contact feels oddly intimate. 

Relieving himself isn’t exactly difficult, but Dean applauds anyway, finished before Castiel presumably because his bladder hasn’t had years to fill.

“I believe most three year-olds are capable of this,” Castiel says. He resists the urge to look over at Dean. “There’s no need for congratulations.”

“Naw, dude, you’re awesome. You didn’t even get any on your shoes.” He looks down at Castiel’s feet, and Castiel knows he should feel the urge to cover himself, but doesn’t. “’Course, if you did, it wouldn’t be a big deal since I stole those boots off a dead guy.”

Castiel turns to gape at Dean, then, and Dean grins back. “Just shitting you. Maybe.”

Castiel tucks himself into his pants – “shake, shake!” Dean reminds him – and zips them up, and then Dean claps him on the back. “Well done. I am glad we could share this important milestone in your life. Hey! Your camera!”

Castiel, standing at the sink, looks down in alarm, assuming he’s splashed water on the device hanging around his neck. It is perfectly dry.

“What about it?” he asks, drying his hands.

“You should take a picture. Capture the site of your first piss on film.”

Castiel considers the smile on Dean’s face, the pleasant drunken blurriness in his mind, the relief of his newly empty bladder. “Alright,” he says with a shrug.

In the second of Castiel’s photographs, he stands in front of a white ceramic urinal, posture stiff. Instead of smiling, he merely looks confused by Dean’s instruction to “Say cheese!” One corner of the photograph is covered by Dean’s dark thumb.

***

_June, 2011_

Castiel breaks the surface of the water and gasps for air, filling his lungs with precious oxygen before something latches around his ankle and he is pulled down again. Castiel kicks and struggles. He's still not accustomed to his own mortality, so it's not fear for his own life that drives him, but concern for the little girl in his arms. She's a heavier weight than he expected she would be when he dove into the lake after her, and her waterlogged body is a reminder of the responsibility he has to protect her. At first she had struggled too, trying to help him stay afloat, kicking out against the fanged faces surrounding them with only her stockinged feet. A minute ago she went still and limp in his arms, unconscious. Castiel knows he doesn't have much time.

There's no way he can make it to shore. There are at least twenty of the monsters forming a ring around them, their eyes and their long fangs shining in the murky depths. Castiel wonders if they'll let them drown before they eat them, or if they prefer to take their prey alive.

Castiel has operated in a constant cloud of ambient melancholy about the decline in his angelic powers since they'd first started to fade, but now he longs for them fiercely, as the monster drags him and the little girl he's holding deeper into the lake, and all he can do is kick weakly. He doesn't even know how to swim properly. Castiel lets go of the girl - Jenny, he remembers - pushing her up toward the surface of the lake. It won't do much - one of the other monsters will grab her - but there's no sense in them drowning together.

Suddenly, the monsters swarming around him start to thrash, emitting high-pitched squealing noises and gnashing their teeth. The one holding his ankle releases him, and Castiel kicks, violently, and hopes he's facing up not down. Everything is the same shade of green down here, full of black shadows. For some reason, the monsters appear to be swimming _away_ from him.

Castiel is surprised when he breaks the surface of the water; he had thought it was much further away from the surface. For a moment everything is wonderfully calm and silent, the sun on his face and air in his lungs. Then there is splashing just to his left, and Dean leans over him, blocking out the sunlight.

"Cas? Cas, can hear you me?" Dean's voice is frantic and Castiel feels guilty for making him worry, so he opens his eyes. Then he opens his mouth to answer, and coughs up water.

"Hey, hey," Dean says, and then he's wrapping one arm around Castiel so he doesn't sink. "Don't freak out. You're fine." Castiel remembers where he is, then, and looks around frantically. The little girl is draped over Dean's opposite shoulder. She is drenched, mud-covered and wide-eyed, but her eyes are open and her lips are an encouraging pink. Castiel breathes out a sigh of relief, and this time his lungs are empty of water.

"How did you - where did they go?" Castiel asks, and Dean holds up a brown sack, half full, from under the water. There are several identical brown sacks, these ones empty, floating in the water around them. "Salt," Dean says, grinning. "Turns out there's a reason these bitches stick to lakes and rivers. They're allergic to the salt in oceans."

Castiel narrows his eyes. "And you were absolutely sure of that when you followed us in here?" he asks.

Dean shrugs. "Well, Bobby's theories work out at least half the time, and I had all that extra salt in the trunk of my car anyway." He grins, and thumps Castiel firmly on the back, making him lose his breath again for a moment. "Come on, let's get back on solid ground."

The girl's parents are waiting for them at the shore, their station wagon parked haphazardly nearby, its engine still running. The father holds out a faded plaid blanket to her, but the little girl won't let go of Dean, clinging to his neck like he's a life preserver. Which, Castiel supposes, is basically true. Dean has preserved both their lives today. When it becomes clear the girl won't budge, frozen in shock, the father wraps the blanket around her anyway, halfway around Dean's shoulders. The mother offers Castiel her sweater, but he declines before he remembers that his own trench coat and suit jacket are probably on the bottom of the lake by now. He'd discarded them as he'd first struggled through the water toward the place where Jenny had disappeared.

"I don't know how we can possibly thank you," the mother says, and it startles Castiel to realize that she's addressing him, not Dean.

"There's no need," he says, without hesitation. "We're just doing our job." And it makes him feel warm despite his soaked skin that he's telling the truth. As an angel he had been as likely to destroy a human being as to assist one, but he is a hunter now. Castiel glances back at Dean, instinctively, and sees a soft smile playing on his lips.

"We'll never forget this," the father says, as he gently pries his daughter's arms from around Dean's neck. The mention of forgetfulness is a reminder.

"Could you perhaps take our photograph?" Castiel asks, before the father can completely remove his child.

The woman nods, and retrieves Castiel's camera from the beach, where he'd tossed it as he'd run across the sand. Her hands are still shaking.

"Say cheese," she says, half-heartedly, before she snaps the photo.

In the picture, Castiel stares straight at the camera, his expression neutral. His white dress shirt clings to his skin, and his hair, longer now, stands up in every direction. There is a piece of seaweed stuck to his neck. Dean stands to his right, the little girl still in his arms. She looks at the camera too, her lips turned up into a smile that looks more like a grimace, valiant attempt to obey her mother's direction to pose for the camera. Her father's arm leads off the edge of the photograph, his hand wrapped around her smaller one. Dean is the only one not looking at the camera. In one arm he holds the little girl, and in another the sopping, near-empty sack of salt. He faces Castiel, half-smile on his face.

You can't tell from the photograph of course, but Castiel remembers what he was saying. "Dude, I'm just pissed 'cause mermaids were supposed to be hot."

***

_August, 2011_

Dean kisses his neck, and all Castiel can think about is his camera. It sits across the motel room, on the table beside Castiel’s still perfectly made bed. Castiel tries to focus on the way Dean feels - on his stubble brushing against the skin of his throat, on Dean's calloused fingertips skating across the skin under his t-shirt. Castiel tries to watch Dean, his long eyelashes pressed against the darkening shadows under his eyes, the pale strip of skin between his jeans and his shirt that appears, tantalizingly, every time he leans over to adjust their position, leaning against the headboard.

"Something wrong?" Dean asks, his voice gruff with lust and probably more than a little exhaustion after a full day of driving, but also warm and teasing. "You got somewhere else you wanna be right now?"

 _"No!"_ Castiel says, adamant. Dean's mouth curls into a smile, and he presses another kiss to the corner of Castiel's mouth, like reassurance. Truth be told, kissing Dean has quickly become Castiel's very favourite activity, and he can think of absolutely nowhere else he'd rather be. It's just that sometimes it starts to feel unreal, like any moment Castiel could blink and suddenly Dean would be gone. They've been doing this - whatever it is - for weeks, and Castiel is still surprised every time Dean leans over their nightly burgers or pizza to kiss him, every time he drops both of their duffel bags next to one of the beds.

"Then can I have a little focus, here?" Dean says, sliding two fingers under the waistband of the new jeans Castiel is still breaking in, so he has no choice but to comply. "This is sort of a two-man job, you know."

And that distracts Castiel again. Language that refers to them as partners always does, because Castiel knows he's Dean's second choice there, and always will be. He wonders, constantly, if Dean would be in bed with him if Sam were still around, if whenever they find the solution to the Apocalypse they're looking for, Sam will come back and Castiel will need to find a way to exist on the fringes of their shared life again. 

"I'm sorry," Castiel says, and pulls Dean forward to meet his mouth, tangling their tongues together. Dean makes a small, pleased sound, and pushes Castiel forward so that his shoulders press firmly against the headboard, straddling his waist. They've been making out for nearly half an hour, and it's the longest they've ever gone without some kind of interruption, so Castiel waits for the phone to ring, or for Dean to decide he wants a snack, or for someone to scream in the hallway because a banshee has followed them home, again. Dean shifts forward so he's practically sitting in Castiel's lap, and Castiel has to lean up to meet his mouth.

The thing is, Castiel _really_ wants to take a picture of this. He's wanted to take a picture of the two of them really _together_ ever since Dean had first kissed him, covered in mud and high on adrenaline in a cornfield after a particularly close call with a pagan fertility god. But Castiel knows Dean well enough to understand that asking to immortalize their every kiss on film would probably not go over well, especially because it probably means very little to Dean. The old man had told him to capture his happiest moments, though, and it feels practically dishonest to not photograph this, Dean's body warm against his, Dean's breath in his own mouth. It feels wrong, like the world's biggest lie by omission.

"Hey," Dean says, voice less gentle now. "Earth to Cas." Then he pulls his t-shirt off over his head and tosses it aside. And okay, Castiel is less distracted now, reaching out to run his hands over the expanse of Dean's skin, the tattoo on his chest, the handprint on his shoulder, the line of soft hair trailing down from his navel. They've never taken off their clothes before. 

"Are you okay with this, seriously?" Dean asks, voice softer again. He bites down on Castiel's ear as he says it though, as if to counteract that gentleness. "You seem kind of out of it. We can stop."

"No!" Castiel snaps, clamping one hand around Dean's wrists as if to hold him, keep him. "That's the opposite of what I want."

"Okay," Dean says, expression wary. He shifts in Castiel's lap, as if suddenly aware of what they're doing. "Then what's the problem?"

"I'm just," Castiel bites his own lip until it hurts, to make himself speak through the haze of fear and arousal. "I'm afraid you'll disappear. That something will get in the way, or I'll do something wrong, and this will be over."

Dean nods, and looks oddly relieved. "I don't scare easy, Cas" he says, voice playful. "You know that." He reaches down and pulls Castiel's t-shirt up over his head, tossing it down next to his own. "I'm not planning on stopping." There's something dark, something dangerous in Dean's voice, and it makes Castiel's stomach twist in anticipation. 

"Do you promise?" Castiel asks, trying to match Dean's playful tone and only half-succeeding, as his voice breaks on the last word. 

"I promise," Dean says, as he unbuttons Castiel's jeans. Dean sits back and tugs at Castiel's hips until Castiel raises them in the air, tugs until Castiel's jeans slide down past his hips, knees, ankles. The jeans join the rest of the clothes in the pile on the floor, and are quickly followed by Castiel's underwear. "I won't stop unless you ask me too."

When Dean wraps his mouth around Castiel's cock, he yells with surprise at pleasure so intense it feels almost like pain. The hot wet heat overwhelms him for a moment. He closes his eyes and loses himself until Dean makes a surprised strangled noise, and he realizes he has unintentionally thrust into Dean's mouth, and grabbed a fistful of Dean's short hair, still damp from the shower. He pulls back immediately, but Dean surges forward, sucking enthusiastically and insistently on his cock.

Castiel looks down at him, and a thrill more visceral than using any of his angel abilities ever had runs through his body, from the tip of his nose to the tips of his toes. Something about looking at Dean, his head bent over his task, Castiel’s hand still resting in his hair, makes Castiel feel whole, present, _sure_ in a way he never has before. _Maybe_ , Castiel thinks, _this is what it feels like to be human._

“Stop,” Castiel says, though it comes out more like a gasp. “Wait.”

Dean pulls back, and the cool air on Castiel’s spit-slick cock makes him shiver. “What is it?” Dean says. Castiel can see him struggling not to roll his eyes. His lips are shiny and swollen.

“Just stay there,” Castiel says. “Don’t move.” 

It takes him less than thirty seconds to get across the room to his camera and back to the bed. When he gets there, Dean is already pushing himself up off of his knees, eyeing Castiel warily.

“No,” Castiel says desperately, “stay.” He puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder and pushes down until his knees sink into the mattress again.

“Cas,” Dean says, pushing half-heartedly at Castiel’s bare stomach as he tries to settle back down in front of Dean. “Really, with the camera?”

“He said to photograph my happiest moments,” Castiel says. “I can’t _not_ take this photo.” He strokes that spot behind Dean’s ear that always makes him shake.

Dean bites his lip, and it makes Castiel want to do a number of indecent things. “You know, most people who wanna take a picture of a dude sucking their dick aren’t exactly pure of heart,” he says.

“I’m not most people,” Castiel answers, brushing his thumb across Dean’s bottom lip, and Dean relents. 

“Don’t show it to anyone,” he says, and then ducks his head, taking Castiel’s aching cock back into his mouth. 

In the photo, you can’t see Dean’s face. His head is tilted downward, his nose nearly touching Castiel’s belly, the line of Castiel’s cock visibly poking against Dean’s cheek. Castiel’s pale hand rests on Dean’s mess of dark hair. The whole thing is a little out of focus, because Castiel hadn’t been able to hold the camera still in his shaking hands. 

***

_February, 2011_

When the Croatoan virus starts to spread, the first thing they do is pick up Chuck. The outbreak isn't widely known yet - Dean and Castiel only recognize it by putting together several seemingly unrelated cases reported in local newspapers - serial killers, mass hysteria, lunatics - and for all they know they might actually be ahead of the government on this one. Dean tries to call the FBI tip-line, though he complains about "breaking the code" beforehand, but they don't pay any attention to a guy predicting a zombie apocalypse. 

So they pick up Chuck, and find him on the front step with his bags already packed, and Becky by his side. They don't want to make a habit of bringing along extra people, and at first Dean tells her she can't come along, despite all of Chuck's threats.

"Go back with your family," he says. "We're just taking Chuck on a short trip to help with a case. He'll be back before you know it."

Chuck scoffs. "I told her what's going on," he says, oddly defiant for someone usually so spineless. "It's Croatoan, right?"

Dean scowls. "The reason we came to get you is because you might be useful. She's dead weight.”

Becky kicks Dean in the shin, and Castiel has to choke back a laugh. "I am _not_ useless," she says with so much conviction Castiel can't even bring himself to doubt her. "And even if I was, you should protect me. That's your _job_. Sam wouldn't leave me to die."

It's the mention of Sam that does it. Dean's eyes flash angry for a moment, and then defeated. 

"Fine," he says bitterly. "But don't get in our way."

It's not until they're on the road, with Chuck, Becky, and Becky's bright pink luggage safely stowed in the backseat, that Dean asks the question.

"Chuck, do you know what's going on with Sam?"

Chuck is answering almost before Dean has finished the question, like he's been waiting for it. "No," he says. "My perspective shifted. Now I get everything from your point of view. No more omniscient narrator." He sounds almost wistful.

Dean nods, like this was the answer he expected. "Okay then, we're shooting sort of blind, but at least we know what _we_ have coming."

"Bunny," Chuck says.

"What?" Dean asks, and then swerves around a rabbit hopping across the road. "Oh."

"Yeah," Chuck says. "Maybe my girlfriend and I aren't quite so useless after all." His voice fills with pride.

"Right, okay," Dean admits. "You come as a unit, I get it. Now could you two please tell me where the heck I'm going?"

"Camp Chitaqua," Chuck says, "in Kansas. You're going to insist on stopping to pick up Bobby on the way, but that stubborn bastard will refuse to leave his house."

Dean frowns. "I have to try anyway."

"Of course you do," Becky says, her voice filled with affection. "He's family, and you'll do anything for family."

Dean falls silent, focusing intently on the completely empty road ahead like he needs to navigate through a traffic jam. "Cas," he says finally, "how about we put on some tunes?"

Castiel shuffles through the glove compartment to find something good.

"Metallica," Chuck pipes up from the back.

Dean swears under his breath, and Castiel deliberately chooses a tape marked Queen, earning a smile from Dean when he glances over as Castiel fumbles with the tape deck. When he presses play, however, "Enter Sandman" blares out of the speakers.

Dean groans, and bumps his forehead against the steering wheel. "I guess it was in the wrong case," Castiel explains. Chuck has the grace not to smirk in the backseat.

"Listen," Dean says, "can we just keep the psychic stuff to a minimum. Pass on the information you think I _need_ to know, not every detail of my existence."

"Sure," Chuck says. "But does that include the fact that the next service station down the road is closed, and if you don't stop at this one you'll run out of gas?"

They pull over so Dean can fill up the tank, and Chuck and Becky go into the station and come out with bags loaded with food. They spread a feast composed of shrink-wrapped sandwiches, bags of chips and diet off-brand soda onto one of the picnic tables outside. Becky arranges the dried out carrot and celery sticks she bought into the shape of a pentagram, apparently just for fun, and rambles about super soakers filled with holy water. Castiel can't follow the whole of her train of thought, but it's nice to hear a new voice. He likes being Dean's partner, of course, but it can get a bit lonely.

"So obviously I knew even before Chuck told me, that you two would fall in love. It was so obvious, right from the beginning. And after that night you took him to the brothel? It was only a matter of time before all that sexual tension boiled over."

Castiel sits up straighter in his seat, and Dean grabs Chuck by the collar of his shirt. "I thought I told you not to write anymore of those things," he snaps.

"I'm not publishing them!" Chuck exclaims, wincing in anticipation of a punch. "I just...need to get it out of my head. Writing them down is the only way I get any sleep. No one else is reading them except Becky, and that's because she's editing them for me."

"I'm his beta," Becky says, her chest puffing out with pride, and Dean just boggles at her. "He really is becoming a much better writer."

Chuck smiles at her. "Thanks, honey."

"Well it's just _true_." Becky answers.

"So let me get this straight," Dean says. "You know everything that's gone on between Cas and I this past year."

"Yep!" Becky exclaims, "Though I wouldn't exactly say we're getting it straight." She giggles in a way that makes Castiel a little nervous.

"Look on the bright side," Chuck says, as Dean releases his shirt and he sinks back into his seat. "At least we already know you're fucking, so you don't need to sneak around."

Unexpectedly, Dean laughs. The sounds rings out into the warm afternoon air, and it somehow makes the slightly warm egg sandwich Castiel is eating taste better. "That is a silver lining," he says after a moment. "So this is it, is it? Team Free Will. A psychic drunk, a washed up angel, a high school dropout with six bucks to his name, and my brother's biggest fan."

"Actually, I'm six days sober," Chuck says.

"And I'm actually more of a Cas fan now," Becky says. "No offense. It's just hard to be Sam's biggest fan when I don't even know what he's up to." She glares at Chuck like he's personally responsible for this tragic oversight in the universe.

"Sorry," Chuck says meekly.

Castiel goes to get his camera. Becky sits between Dean and Chuck in the photo, with an arm around each of their shoulders. She smiles like this is the happiest day of her life, though that might be because she's running her fingers through Dean's hair. Chuck sits to her left, unsmiling but reasonably content, gazed fixed on Becky's face with rapt attention. To Becky's left sits Dean, ignoring her fingers in his hair, and resolutely eating his sandwich. They look like, Castiel thinks, a happy family. 

***  
 _July, 2012_

In the next photograph, Dean is standing on top of a mountain of toilet paper. Castiel has mixed feelings about this picture, since compared to the rest of his collection it seems almost...crude. Dean and Cas had gone on their first solo supply run that day, to a nearby Wal-Mart surrounded by a chain-link fence that the Croats hadn't been able to cross yet. The big box stores are often easier places to hit than the smaller stores for this reason. They'd been the first to close their doors when the panic and looting had begun, and they'd had the security resources to keep out humans and non-humans alike. They’re not easy to get into now, but once you do there’s a good chance you’re the first person who’s managed it.

It takes them nearly half an hour to get through all the security, using a combination of the last of Castiel's angel "mojo" and some good old-fashioned brute force. Dean keeps watch until Castiel needs him to shoot a lock or kick down a door, but he doesn't need to raise the alarm even once. The undead are quiet today.

Inside, the power is miraculously still on - the store must have its own generator - so it is blissfully air conditioned. Bland, inoffensive pop music seeps down from somewhere near the ceiling. Lack of customers or employees aside, the store appears perfectly normal. All the carts are pushed neatly into their corral, and the groceries all sit in their proper locations on the shelves. A distinctively foul odor drifts over from the fresh produce section of the store, but they won't bother checking there anyway.

"This is like a horror movie," Dean says quietly, though there's really no reason to whisper. Castiel assumes this must be a pop culture reference he doesn't understand, since this cheerful, well-lit cornucopia of supplies is probably the least horrific thing they've seen in months, in his opinion.

"We're going to need a bigger truck," Castiel says, instead of asking for an explanation, and Dean nods.

"Why don't we drag everything we want into one place," Dean suggests, "and then decide what to take now and what to come back for?"

Castiel has objections on the tip of his tongue. In their single Jeep they'll only be able to bring back a miniscule proportion of what's here, anyway. It would be faster to go back now than to salvage and collect everything on their own before going for reinforcements. If they brought an entire caravan they could probably have this place cleaned out in an hour, whereas it will take Dean and Cas at least five or six to do it all themselves. And then Castiel looks at Dean and realizes that Dean doesn't want to go back to camp, not yet. His shoulders are more relaxed than Castiel has seen them in months, his eyes are bright with anticipation, and he's slipped his gun back into its holster. Dean is _comfortable_ here, and Castiel isn't sure if that's because of the food, the air conditioning, or the fact that it's just the two of them for the first time in ages.

"Sure," he says. "That sounds like a good plan," though it isn't.

They clear out a space at the front of the store near the entrance, pushing aside a display case of Valentine's Day products. Candy hearts and chocolate roses scatter across the floor behind them, and Dean kicks them aside. And then they start to build piles.

They move all the canned food first, Dean using a stepladder they found in the staff room to pull pallets of it off the shelves, while Castiel stacks it on dollies and then rolls it back and forth to their growing pile. Dean plans to leave the creamed corn behind, but Castiel convinces him to take it by promising to tell Chuck Dean is allergic to the stuff. Castiel has become quite proficient at lying. 

They take a break to drink cola - still cold! - out of the refrigerator near the store exits before they hit the pharmacy, though there's not much there. When the virus first started spreading, most of the good drugs had been requisitioned by the government or the army, or relocated to major cities. Still, they get a hold of a few antibiotics and plenty of painkillers, a few of them even narcotic. They also stock up on bandages and soaps and toothpaste, filling up cart after cart. It's Dean who remembers they should take all the vitamins, too, and Castiel who grabs the condoms and lube.

And then there is the toilet paper. It's a little embarrassing, but this is the find Castiel appreciates the most. Losing his automatic angelic cleanliness had come as a bit of a shock, and as Chuck's reports on their "hygienic supplies" become more and more dire every day, Castiel feels an increasing sense of dread. The sight of practically an _entire aisle_ filled with shelf upon shelf of paper products fills him with glee.

"Well," Dean says, smiling just as broadly as Castiel, "isn't this a sight for sore eyes?"

And so, naturally, they build a tower out of it. Because most of the plastic bundles are curved slightly by the shape of the rolls, they stack together like building blocks. They have to use stepladders to reach the top of their stack, and when the toilet paper shelves are bare they move on to the paper towels, too. By the time they're finished, the stack nearly touches the ceiling, and it teeters precariously any time either of them touches it. Castiel thinks it's sort of beautiful, all that pristine white marred only by bright slashes of hyper-bright colours from the packaging, sort of like a fairy tale castle. Then he wonders if, despite the soda, he might be a little dehydrated.

But if Castiel is going a bit crazy then so is Dean, because he decides they should climb it. 

Castiel is hesitant to destroy their masterpiece, so Dean goes on his own, scaling to the top of a ladder Castiel holds steady, and then leaping towards the top of their tower. He makes the jump, but part of the pile collapses beneath him and he has to grab onto one of the metal ceiling beams to keep from knocking the entire thing down. The result is a crushed top-section of their tower, so that it resembles an ancient ruin more than a fairy tale castle. Castiel doesn't mind; the victorious smile on Dean's face is worth the loss.

Castiel snaps a picture of Dean on the top of the tower, laughing down in his direction and pretending he doesn't want to be photographed. 

So it's not the most poignant of all his photos. Since they'd been acting like children more than anything else, Castiel's not even sure that it even represents an important step in his growth. But he - and Dean - are most certainly happy, even if it's in a simple kind of way. And Castiel's oddly satisfied by that. There's something so very human about being so pleased to have something to wipe your ass with.

***

_October, 2013_

By the time the news out of Detroit gets to from the scouts to Castiel, Dean is already gone. He arrives at Dean’s cabin at the same time as Risa, both out of breath from running. They’re probably the only two people in the camp allowed to walk into Dean’s space without knocking, but the place is empty.

“They should have told us first,” Risa snaps. “Morons.”

“That’s why we send them out as scouts,” Castiel adds, sarcastic. “Because we won’t exactly miss them if they don’t make it back.”

They stand out on the porch together, squinting out into the sun. “He went that way,” Chuck calls from across the yard, pointing at a hunting trail heading east into the forest, back past Castiel’s cabin. It hurts a little, that Dean hadn’t stopped to see him. It’s also fucking terrifying. “About twenty minutes ago.”

“Rock paper scissors?” Castiel asks, turning to face Risa again. He likes her better than any of the other girls Dean has had, and he very nearly trusts her.

Risa shakes her head. “You go,” she says. “You’re better at finding him.” Castiel kisses her in his gratitude, but her heart’s not in it and neither is his, stomach clenched with worry. It makes their fellow campers – looking out the windows of their own cabins, chopping wood, or running last minutes errands before it gets too dark– visibly relax, though. Dean must be okay, they must think, if Risa and Cas are making out outside his cabin. It even seems to calm Chuck down, and he knows as much as Castiel does about the effect bad news regarding Sam Winchester has on his brother.

“Go,” Risa whispers into his ear. Her posture is relaxed, leaning into his body like she doesn’t have a care in the world, but the rising panic in her voice is brutally honest.

Castiel stops at his cabin on the way. He grabs the half bottle of Jack Daniels he’d been saving for an emergency and, instinctively, his Polaroid camera, like it’s some kind of good luck charm. Then he tears off down the trail again, trying not to trip over tree roots. The camera swings against his chest as he runs, its sharp corners digging into his flesh, like a second, even more painful heartbeat.

By the time he finds Dean the sun has completely set, and the stars are visible overhead. Dean’s silhouette is visible in the moonlight, sitting on the ground, his back against a tree. Castiel wishes he’d noticed Dean sooner, in case the noise of his footfalls scares him off. Of course, he’d rather Dean run off than not respond at all, which is the other option he’d considered while running headlong through the forest. He wishes he’d asked Chuck if Dean was armed when he’d left. If it’s Dean’s _body_ up ahead, propped up against a tree with a bullet in its head, Castiel will…well, to be honest he has no idea what he’ll do, but he prepares himself for the sight, anyway.

Castiel holds his breath and takes another step forward. “Hey,” Dean says, glancing over his shoulder. “I’m glad it’s you.”

Castiel exhales loudly. “You scared the shit out of me,” he says.

“By…sitting here?” Dean raises an eyebrow questioningly, then pushes aside some dried leaves and twigs and pats the ground next to him. “Well take a seat to recover from the terrible fright I’ve given you, oh warrior angel.”

Castiel rolls his eyes, but sits, leaning against the oak so that their shoulders bump together. “We were worried about you. We thought you might be upset…by the news, I mean.” It’s an understatement, but it’s true.

“We?” Dean asks.

“Me and Risa,” Castiel says, peeking at Dean through his peripheral vision and trying to figure out if Dean has a single gun or two, to detect any tell-tale lumps in his clothing.

“Ah. I’m not sure how I feel about you two being such close friends all of a sudden,” Dean teases.

“Two weeks ago you suggested we have a threesome,” Castiel counters. He wonders if Dean has suffered some kind of psychotic break, if his mind has totally repressed the news.

“Two weeks ago one of you obviously slipped something into my drink,” Dean says with a wicked smile, “and I think we know which one of you is the expert on drugs.” Then, after a short pause, “I’m happy about the news out of Detroit.”

Castiel coughs, and he gives up on being subtle, turning to face Dean. “What?”

“It’s a good sign,” Dean says. “It means Sam has a plan.” Dean tilts his head back against the rough bark of the tree, and smiles up at the stairs.

“Dean…” Castiel begins.

“Don’t start with me, Cas,” Dean interrupts. “You don’t know Sam like I do.” He talks about his brother in present tense. “He wouldn’t say yes without a reason, not after holding out for this long and sacrificing this much.”

Now that Castiel think about it, the timing _is_ kind of strange.

“Sam must have figured out a way to get rid of him,” Dean continues, “and being his vessel must be a part of it.”

Castiel remembers Sam Winchester as an angry boy still grieving from the loss of his mother, his girlfriend, his father, and his own innocence. He remembers Sam conspiring with a demon, drinking her blood, and suffering for it, screaming in the panic room. He remembers Sam as desperate for power, for some tiny sliver of autonomy in a life as destiny’s chess piece. That boy might be very easily seduced by Lucifer’s pretty words, without his brother by his side.

Castiel has never met the boy Sam was, the one Dean always talks about, the one so profoundly _good_ he taught his brother to be a better person. But Castiel does remember _why_ Sam started drinking demon blood, all love and good intentions. He’s made more than a few mistakes for the same reasons, and so has Dean, who sits beside him as much an angelic vessel as his brother. Castiel would follow Dean to the end of the earth, so it makes sense to have a little faith in Sam, too.

“That makes sense,” Castiel says. “Sam is much more clever than either of us.” Present tense.

Dean’s expression is grateful. “He always was the brains of the operation,” he admits. “You know Sam and I used to do this? Sit out and watch the stars on clear nights. He knows the names of all the constellations.”

“I know them too,” Castiel says. It comes out more competitive than he means for it to. “There are tens of thousands of them, if you include the interpretations of all the human cultures throughout history.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean says, leaning over to lick the shell of Castiel’s ear. “That’s really very impressive to me.” Castiel doubts his sincerity. Dean scrambles on the leaf-covered ground for a moment, then climbs into Castiel’s lap, straddling him. He burrows his face in Castiel’s throat, biting down gently on his collarbone. He rocks up against Castiel, who can feel his growing erection even through their jeans.

“Feels good,” Castiel pants into Dean’s hair.

“Mmm,” Dean agrees. “Sam and I never did this part of star-watching.”

Something catches in Castiel’s brain, a thousand unspoken, half-formed worries he’d harboured in the back of his mind for years. “Didn’t you?” he says, before he can stop himself.

Dean goes still, sits back and meets Castiel’s gaze. “What?”

“You and Sam,” Castiel answers. “You never…”

Dean coughs, and goes faintly pink, and Castiel’s heart stops for a moment. He imagines Dean pushing him away, maybe punching him in the mouth. But Dean’s expression goes incredulous instead. “You think Sam and I were…” Dean grimaces comically, and can’t seem to bring himself to say it, “ _together?”_

Castiel shrugs. “You were everything to each other. And the way you were after the two of you split up. What else was I to think?”

Dean seems a little at a loss for words. “But couldn’t you have read our minds? Or gone invisible and spied on us at night? And then smited us for our sinful, incestuous ways or whatever?”

Castiel shakes his head. “It would be rude to invade your privacy for reasons unrelated to the mission, or maybe I was just avoiding what I didn’t want to know.” He clears his throat. “Anyway, I lived through biblical times. A little harmless incest isn’t enough to earn you a smiting.”

Dean snorts, then leans in again, pressing their foreheads together. “I guess,” he says, “that if an objective outsider were compiling a list of siblings likely to commit incest Sam and I wouldn’t exactly be at the bottom of the list.” He sighs. “This is not a conversation I thought I’d ever be having.”

Castiel smiles and presses a kiss to Dean’s mouth. He hums under his breath.

“What are you so happy about?” Dean says accusingly. “You just called me a pervert.”

“I’m in no place to call anyone a pervert,” Castiel says with another grin. “And I’m happy because it is an immense relief to know that you have not been in love with Sam this entire time and just trying to fill that hole in your heart with whatever’s convenient. And also, because you didn’t shoot yourself in the head tonight.”

Dean gives him that look that means he thinks Castiel is acting like he’s from another planet, and it makes Castiel kind of nostalgic for the days before his fall.

“You’re a moron,” Dean says.

“Okay,” Castiel says, and then he takes a picture of the night sky. It doesn’t really turn out, just a few tiny specks of white against the black background, but Castiel doesn’t think he’ll forget this moment anyway.

***

_December, 2013_

"Hey, wake up," Dean hisses into his ear, and Castiel is awake instantly, blinking through the fog in his brain and the sand in his eyes. He sits up too suddenly and his head spins.

"Slow down," Dean whispers. "Don't hurt yourself." Dean is leaning over him, and he smells like cold and smoke and gunpowder. He's still wearing his jacket, and Castiel notices that it is splattered with blood, though not enough of it to be his own.

"Are you okay?" Castiel asks anyway.

"Yeah," Dean answers. "C'mon, get up. I brought something back for you. Bring your photos."

Castiel frowns, but does as he's told, fetching not only the small pile of photos, but also his camera. He nearly trips over a quilt-swaddled body lying at the foot of his bed. It becomes clear why Dean was whispering. Castiel held a small get-together the night before, and many of his guests stayed the night. Even in the darkness Castiel can hear the sound of at least four people breathing in the room; Dean's whispers had drowned them out, before.

Castiel follows Dean to the second bedroom, empty, since Castiel had pulled the spare bed into the main room the night before. His rough wooden floor freezes his feet, but he doesn't complain. Dean moves to the farthest corner of the room, then sits with his back against the wall. Castiel joins him, leaning in to his body heat. Dean, obviously still keyed up from the mission, takes off his jacket and places it across his shoulders. Castiel stops shaking.

Dean reaches into the coat, cold fingers grazing Castiel's arm, and pulls out a clear glass bottle full of brown liquid.

"This is really good scotch," Dean says, opening the bottle and taking a long sip. "I had to hide it in my coat so Chuck wouldn't claim it for medicinal use." His smile is mischievous, like a kid caught looting the cookie jar. He offers the bottle to Castiel, who accepts it gratefully. It's been a long time since he's had something real to drink; the moonshine they make in the camp is as likely to make you blind as it is to get you drunk.

Dean reaches into the coat again, and pulls out a small leather book, covered in plastic. He drops it in Castiel's lap.

"That's for you," he says. "It's an album for your pictures. You'll lose them if you just keep them loose like that."

Castiel tears the plastic and tosses it aside, relishing the consumerist crinkling of the wrapping. The leather cover feels soft under his hands, and warm from where it had been pressed against Dean's body inside his jacket. The album has room for twenty photos, but Castiel only has the film for ten. Each one will get its own page.

"Thank you," Castiel says, imagining Dean taking a detour in the mall they looted tonight, standing in front of a shelf of photo albums in a card and gifts shop, while everyone else gathered canned goods or medical supplies. He'd chosen this album in particular, digging it out from among the cheap plastic options covered in pastel hearts and flowers. "No one's ever brought me a present before."

"It's nothing," Dean says, but he looks away as he says it, dropping his eyes to a completely unremarkable part of the floor. "No big deal." Castiel knows, then, that it _is_ a big deal to Dean, that it does mean something. He leans over and kisses Dean hard, pulling him in by the back of his neck. His photos fall off his lap in the process, scattering across the floor for the last time. After tonight, they'll have a place they belong.

"So," Dean says, once Castiel runs out of air and breaks the kiss. "How about we work on this bottle of scotch?" Castiel can see his breath in the cold winter air, but he suspects the alcohol won't be the only thing keeping them warm tonight.

"Sure," he says, handing the bottle back to Dean. "Just let me take your photo first."

Dean groans and rolls his eyes, but he doesn't object. He takes the photo album from Castiel so that Castiel can hold his camera. Dean doesn't like to look into the camera, doesn't like to pose, and Castiel loves him for it. Dean lets Castiel photograph him, but he pretends not to know he's doing it. Now, he busies himself picking the dropped photographs off the ground, and tucks them carefully between the pages of the album, where they'll be safe.

In the photograph, Dean is on his knees on the wooden floor of an empty room. The only light is from the nearly full moon shining in through the uncovered window, and Dean is using that light to retrieve Castiel's photos. He holds two in one hand, carefully, by just the edges, and the brown leather album in the other. He's not looking at the camera, but Castiel can read his expression anyway, in the tiny upward curve of his mouth.

***

_March, 2014_

When Jackson gets back, lone survivor in a supply caravan that had included three vehicles and nine men and women, Castiel tends to him first, because it's kind of his job. He helps two of the other campers carry him to the infirmary, and then waits with him until Chuck arrives to take down his story. It's Chuck's job to keep records of the camp's history: resources, battles, victories and losses. Chuck keeps a careful record of any deaths, too, because he still thinks that someday he'll publish this, that there will be a world left that wants to remember them. He plans to dedicate the book to Becky, his biggest fan.

But Becky’s gone now, and Castiel isn’t sure there will be anyone else left to read it soon, either.

On his way back to his cabin Castiel stops to talk to groups of frightened looking campers, huddled together on front porches or in the middle of the dirt paths they use to get around. Many of them are crying, clinging together in the damp autumn air. These people, Castiel knows, are the friends, family or lovers of those they have lost. Even those who were strangers to the dead campers are pale, shaken. This mission was supposed to be an easy one; the soldiers were well armed and the warehouses they were trying to clear out nearby. Castiel knows from Jackson that their worst fears are coming true, that the Croats have started to organize, to strategize. That they have a leader and a plan is bad news for the survivors here, of course, but Castiel, with added perspective, knows that it's even more serious than that. Lucifer is finally making his move.

Castiel distributes hugs and reassurance as he goes, and he hopes it seems genuine, but the performance feels forced in a way it usually doesn't. One of the women killed in the ambush had been his lover; they had slept together just three nights before, and there's something entirely disconcerting about the fact that she's dead - or worse, turned - now. Like that night they shared has never happened - or maybe this day is the unreal part. In any case, Castiel is thrown as much as any of the campers, but he tries his best to hide it, tries to maintain control and what little air of authority he has, at least until he arrives at his cabin and can swallow down a few Valium with a generous shot of whiskey.

As usual, though, Dean throws a wrench in his plans. When Castiel opens his door he finds Dean sitting on his cot, cross-legged, in the dark.

"Are you trying to meditate?" Castiel asks.

"Do you think it would help?" Dean responds.

Castiel cocks his head and pretends to think it over. "For you, no."

Dean smiles, but it is a hard, twisted expression that is all too familiar these days. "I don't think I can do this, Cas," he says in a whisper, as if he's afraid of being overheard. That may very well be true; Dean expends a lot of energy putting on a brave face for his followers.

"Meditate?" Castiel asks, but his voice cracks and the joke falls flat.

"Lead," Dean answers. "Not anymore. Every step we make they're three steps ahead of us. The more people I put at risk the more we lose, and worst of all they don't _die_ , they actually _join the opposing team._ I give up, Cas. I'm tired of being in charge. I'm tired of sending good people to their deaths."

Castiel has seen this kind of hopelessness on Dean's face only once before, and he'd spent that entire night screaming _yes_ at the silent stars until he'd lost his voice, and then hadn't spoken for a full week. Castiel hadn't slept longer than half an hour at a time either, lying next to Dean in his too-small cot and checking to make sure he was still breathing. Castiel doesn't think he can handle that again. Dean has never been as stoic as his father probably intended him to be, has always felt his emotions wholeheartedly, no matter how horrible.

"Hey, hey," Castiel says, still in the habit of being comforting after his rounds outside. "It's okay. You don't have to be in charge all the time."

Dean scoffs. "Yes I do, Cas. These people are my responsibility. If I couldn't save Sa-"

Castiel claps one hand over Dean's mouth, and Dean lets out a warm, surprised puff of air against his palm. "No," he says, pitching his voice low and firm. "None of this is your fault, Dean, and you're going to take the night off."

This isn't something they've ever done before, though Castiel has some experience with other people. He digs the bindings out from under his mattress. A silk cord that had been used to hold a woman's dressing gown closed, and his own faded navy blue necktie, which had somehow managed to survive when his trench coat had not. Dean's eyes go marginally wider when he sees what Castiel is holding, but he doesn't object, doesn't speak when Castiel relaxes the hand covering Dean's mouth. 

"Tonight, I'm in charge," Castiel says. "Tonight you're my responsibility."

Castiel ties each of Dean's wrists to the steel bed frame, fingers shaking though he's not really nervous. Dean watches him warily, like he doesn't quite know what he's getting himself into, but he doesn't say a word. When he's done, Castiel lies on his side next to Dean, turning Dean's body so they lie face to face. He unbuttons Dean's shirt and pushes it off his shoulders and up his arms, where it catches around his wrists. He undoes the zipper of Dean's jeans and the sound seems to fill the room, the only other noise Dean's quiet exhalation of breath.

Castiel kisses Dean thoroughly, then slides his mouth down across Dean's collarbone, his left nipple, the too-sharp jut of his hipbone and, finally, over the head of Dean's cock. Dean whimpers, then, and says Castiel's name, and Castiel shushes him. "Quiet," he orders, though he secretly mourns the loss of Dean's voice. 

Dean comes quickly, after just a minute or two of Castiel's attention. He doesn’t make a sound.  
Then, while Dean’s body is still limp and pliant, Castiel rolls Dean onto his stomach, tugging both pairs of jeans over their respective ankles, and tossing them aside. He reaches under the mattress to pull out the tube of lube he keeps there, then drapes his body over Dean’s, pressing into him, first with his fingers, and then with his cock.

Dean makes one small, barely vocalized sound, and he rolls over far enough to bite down on the pillow, hard. Castiel takes advantage of the new angle, thrusting deeper. Dean tugs at the restraints but they hold firm, biting into his wrists more deeply.

“Good, Dean, you’re doing so good,” Castiel whispers into Dean’s ear as he fucks him. But he doesn’t try to be gentle because he knows he doesn’t need to be, and even though Dean can’t speak, he can tell when he’s got the rhythm and depth right by the way Dean jerks beneath him.

Castiel lets himself get lost in it, in the feeling of Dean beneath and around him, in the sound of their ragged breathing filling the uncharacteristically empty room. But Castiel keeps himself present. He doesn’t treat the adrenaline surging through his veins as yet another drug, never with Dean. He presses on the back of Dean’s neck until his breathing goes just the tiniest bit shallower, and then he holds himself back, settles into a rhythm, takes his time.

Castiel lets Dean rub himself off against the never-clean sheets, and then comes himself a few sharp thrusts later. He waits until his heartbeat returns to normal before he rolls off of Dean, but even then neither of them moves for what feels like hours.

When Castiel finally shifts, it’s only to reach under the bed for his camera. Dean curls his lip into a half smile, and Castiel can tell by the relaxation in his limbs and the submission in his eyes that Dean would let him take a photograph of whatever he wanted – his face, his swollen mouth, his ass probably leaking come by now – but Castiel focuses on his wrists instead.

The photograph is all contrast – Dean’s pale, vulnerable wrists against ungiving dark steel. To anyone else it might look dark, even dangerous, but to Castiel this photograph is peace. It is the last few moments before Dean looks him straight in the eye and says, all business again, “Time to get back to work.”

***

_August, 2014_

Castiel recognizes the other Dean immediately. It comes as a bit of a surprise at first - he hasn't noticed any trace of his angelic powers in over a year - but it fits back over his skin like a well-worn coat. This older (younger?) Dean is preoccupied, bewildered by this new world and desperate to get back home. Castiel doesn't blame him, and he sort of likes that Dean is so focused, because it gives him plenty of time to watch, and to think.

It's exactly Zachariah's style to send Dean here, the kind of after school special moralizing heaven specializes in, with an added touch of cruelty. Zachariah's sent Dean here to hurt him, and to scare him, and to make him say "yes," that much is obvious. Castiel wonders, briefly, if this entire reality would just pop out of existence if he did, but that kind of metaphysical stuff gives him a headache since his powers wore off, so he pops a few of the purple pills, and heads back to his cabin, leaving the two Dean's alone.

The thing is, there has to be a reason Zachariah chose now, chose this specific day. Castiel doesn't like it. Something especially horrific must be about to go down, and their mission to retrieve the Colt seems the most likely candidate. Someone's going to die tonight, and Castiel is very aware it could be him.

He supposes he could refuse to go on the mission. He knows most everyone in the camp has turned Dean down, recognizing the manic glint in his eye. It's a suicide mission. But Dean is going either way, and that doesn't leave Castiel with much of a choice. If Dean's ready to die, than Cas is pretty sure he's ready, too. He's not entirely sure, but he can't really think of any other option, at this point.

Castiel takes too many pills, and he gets a little too happy, and he pulls out his camera, intending to take the last photograph, to finish off his film. He has trouble holding the camera steady across from his own face, though, and it falls into his laps. Castiel feels dizzy, and too warm, and he lets himself fall back against the pillow. He only means to close his eyes for a moment, before going out and helping to load up the Jeep.

***

Dean knocks, but he doesn't wait for Cas to answer before he opens the cabin door. Everything is loaded and ready to go, and he doesn't know what's taking Cas so damn long anyway. When he sees Cas asleep on his cot Dean frowns and shakes his head. He stomps across the floor, and when Cas doesn't stir, shakes him by the shoulder. Cas groans and mutters something about destiny, and then rolls over onto his stomach. In the process, his huge-ass Polaroid camera rolls out of his lap, and Dean barely catches it by the strap before it clatters to the floor.

"Fuck," Dean mutters. It would be just like Cas to carry this thing through years of hunts and the end of the world, only to break it in his sleep. But then, Dean realizes, it's not like it would serve Cas any good for much longer, anyway.

Dean doesn't expect any of them to come back from this. Even if he does get the shot off and take down Lucifer there will be Croats to contend with, and anyway, Dean wouldn't even place a bet on his own odds of success on the devil-killing front. But Dean has to try, for Sam, and because he doesn't have much to live for anymore. If Cas is one of the only people willing to come along, well, there’s nothing Dean can do about that.

Dean opens the drawer next to Cas' bed. He means to put the camera away, to tuck it in among the drug paraphernalia and condoms and half-empty bottles of lube, but his eyes catch on the leather photo album, tucked safely in the back of the drawer. Dean pulls it out on instinct, flipping to the first page.

Cas has arranged the photos chronologically, one per page though there's room for two. Dean had offered, in the early days before the Internet had been commandeered for official government business only, to try and find Cas some more film, but Cas had refused. "Ten is a nice round number,” he'd said. "And besides, it might spoil the magic." Dean remembers the old man who gave Cas the camera, and his creepy old house, and he doesn't think there was much magic there. But Cas has always been the type of guy who needs something or someone to believe in, and quite frankly, he secretly thinks the camera has taken some of the pressure off him.

Dean flips through Cas' photographs, idly at first – a sunset, he and Cas in a dimly lit pub bathroom, he and Cas soaking wet on the seashore after being attacked by some ugly-ass mermaids. Then he slows down. The top of his head, under Cas’ open palm. 

Dean doesn't normally remember the names of the cities they stop in, unless he's on a case, but he remembers this was Indianapolis. He remembers the way the sheets had been over-starched, the way the room had smelled like Doritos, remnants of the room's most recent tenant. He remembers the way Cas' mouth had felt under his, the way his come tasted. Next photo. Dean, Becky and Chuck sitting at a picnic table. The photo is overexposed, but Dean can still read the fond annoyance on his own face. Dean standing on top of a stack of toilet paper in the middle of Wal-Mart, looking just the slightest bit afraid of heights. 

The next photo is mostly black, with just a few spots of white. At first Dean thinks the shot was a dud, until he realizes it's an image of the stars, from the night he had first heard about Sam, back when he thought - naively- that it might somehow mean good news. In the next photo Dean's on his knees, holding the same photo album that's in his hands right now. The last photo is of Dean's wrists, twisted together and tied to the steel frame of the bed Cas is sleeping in right now, still muttering in his sleep. That one inspires a twist in his gut that is more than just nostalgia.

The last page of the album is blank. Cas must have one sheet of film left in the camera.  
Dean sinks to a sitting position on the edge of Cas' bed, then hesitates for just a second before stretching out next to him, aligning his body with Cas'. He tucks one arm under his own head, and wraps the other around the curve of Cas' hip. "Hey," he whispers in Cas' ear, "wake up."

Cas stirs, and leans back against Dean's body. "Bzuh?" he says, and then turns his head. When recognizes Dean he relaxes again, sinking down into the pillow. "Hey," he says. "Is it time to go?"

There's a lump in Dean's throat, and he has to swallow before he can speak. "There's still a photo left in your camera," he says. "Maybe you should finish it.”

Cas is perfectly silent for a moment, and then he nods, the hair at the back of his head tickling Dean's nose. "Okay," he says. "I understand. I don't want to take a photo right now, but I understand."

"You don't need to come with me," Dean says, suddenly desperate. It feels like there's something clawing at the inside of his chest. "You can stay behind."

"No," Cas says, voice determined. "I'm not letting you go without me." There's something of the old angelic gravity in his tone, the voice designed to make wrongdoers cower in fear. Dean's kind of immune to it, but it does help Cas make his point.

"Okay," Dean says, surprised at how easily the words come out, at how quickly he can reverse a decision that took him two weeks of sleepless nights to make in the first place. "Then I'm not going either."

Cas sits up, nearly banging his head on the bed frame. "What?" he says, losing all of the angelic composure he had briefly regained.

"If you insist on sticking with me, then I guess I shouldn't get us both killed," Dean says. "And anyway, if I used the Colt on Lucifer I'd probably kill Sam, too."

Cas' eyes widen, and then he grins. "You're doing this for Sam," he says.

"Of course," Dean says with a smirk. "Who else would I be doing it for?"

Cas flops back down onto the bed, then rolls over and kisses Dean soundly on the mouth. "I love you," he says, forcing Dean to meet his gaze.

"Yeah, I know," Dean jokes. "I've seen your ridiculously sappy photo album."

"Shut up," Cas says. "It could be magic."

"You know what?" Dean says, remembering the strange blank look that had crossed the old man's face before he offered Cas the camera. "You might just be right."

They lie in silence for a moment. Outside, they hear the sound of a door slamming, and Risa yelling, "What's the fucking holdup?" The other Dean grumbled "Maybe he OD'd," in response.

"I don't think old you approves of my coping mechanisms." Cas says.

"I don't think I approve of your coping mechanisms," Dean responds, and, after a moment, "I guess Zachariah's not gonna see the little show he arranged."

"That'll piss him right off," Cas says, with a wistful smile.

In the last photograph, Dean is holding the camera above their heads. Dean is sticking out his tongue, and Castiel is giving Zachariah the finger.


End file.
